


Clarity

by Rockinmuffin



Category: Saints Row
Genre: A lot of cursing, Comic Violence, Crack, Crude Humor, Dark Humor, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Reader-Insert, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/pseuds/Rockinmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you trying to kill me or sleep with me?”</p>
<p>“Charming.”</p>
<p>“See, there you go with those mixed messages again.”</p>
<p>“Then allow me to be perfectly clear.”</p>
<p>You(Boss) x Zinyak</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> So, just recently got into the Saints Row fandom. I haven’t played much of the first two games, but I just recently played through the third and fourth games and would highly recommend them. Personally, I think the third game was the most fun, but the fourth has the best villain.
> 
> I claim no ownership of this franchise and all the dialogue in this story is taken straight from the game. I just decided to play with the scene and interpret it differently.
> 
> Spoilers for the first three campaigns in Saints Row IV.
> 
> You x Zinyak

Today is not turning out the way you were originally hoping.

First, you hear you’re down 20 points in the latest approval rating. Admittedly, that doesn’t mean much to you; you’re the president—the leader of the free world, damn it—and you have more important things to concern yourself with than what the public thinks of you. Like having some stripper poles installed in the oval office. Public relations and image is more Pierce’s subject of expertise anyhow.

Then you have to choose between either curing cancer or solving world hunger. Again, it’s not really all that big of a deal to you, but you would have still liked to do both if you had your way. In the end, you choose world hunger if only because it’s a good seque into asking someone to bring you a sandwich. Being the Commander in Chief is hungry work.

And then aliens attack the White House.

Just before you’re about to make your big speech, some dickhead with the unfortunately stupid-sounding name of Zinyak appears in front of your podium with an entire entourage of ugly walking cannon fodder that he calls an army.

This is actually the best part of your day. Any time you get to run wild and shoot your guns is a pretty good time in your book. Well, until all your cabinet members get abducted like it’s a goddamn Liam Neeson movie. Then it’s not so fun anymore.

You’re so worried about your homies that you only laugh about half as maniacally as you normally would when you’re shooting down alien ships with the most patriotic display of heavy missile fire your eyes have ever seen. Because, _really_ , you’d have to be some kind of emotional robot to not get at least _some_ enjoyment out of taking down invading enemies with fireworks and heavy artillery. You watch a UFO crash to the ground and blow up in an explosion of red white and blue and _damn_ are you proud to be an American.

To be fair though, you’re a proud person in general. Proud enough to leap head first into the cock pit of the biggest alien battleship, at any rate. Proud enough to punch that big mongoloid-looking motherfucker Zinyak in his spiky face, too.

The severe ass-kicking you receive from the self-proclaimed emperor mere seconds later is not your proudest moment, but it hurts your bones more than it hurts your pride.

Next thing you know, you’re trapped in some virtual hell-hole where all your quips are followed by a laugh track, all your curses are censored, and your walk cycle is over-exaggerated and goofy-looking as fuck. On the bright side, your virtual wife is hot. Unfortunately, you’re currently living in the type of sexually-repressed society where the two of you most likely sleep in two separate twin beds spaced six feet apart. At least she makes a mean plate of virtual pancakes.

Delicious breakfast aside, you don’t think you can take much more of this weird world with its eerie peace and Stepford smiling. You almost give up hope. For the first time in your life, you find yourself facing a problem so great that nothing can solve it. All you can do is drive aimlessly in circles as you attempt to clear your head.

Until Kinzie—sweet, beautiful, socially awkward and quite possibly insane Kinzie—starts speaking into your mind and reminds you that there’s no problem that can’t be fixed by a rocket launcher. Even strange, over-powered sheriffs that can keep walking after six rockets straight to the face. Fuckin’ hax. He goes down after about six more, though.

You’re humming Bob Marley’s I Shot the Sherriff, idly kicking the cold corpse around for the pure satisfaction of watching the dead body’s limbs flail before rigor mortis has the chance to set in when you hear a voice other than Kinzie’s echoing in your brain.

“I’m impressed,” you hear Zinyak say in his holier-than-thou tone and it makes your trigger finger itchy as a motherfucker.

“Where the hell ar—?” You stop abruptly when you spot the connect-the-dot cosmos outline of the alien’s big fat head in the sky. You know it’s him because stars alone could never look so damn smug. “Ah, fuck me.”

“I should have realized a prison of peace would never hold a sociopath like yourself.”

You tilt your head the side with a half-smile. “I’m more of a puckish rogue.” Personally, you don’t see why everyone thinks you’re a sociopath. Self-centered narcissist? Sure. Shameless hedonist? Absolutely. But sociopath? You’re pretty sure that’s just a gross exaggeration. 

“A rose by any other name.”

That gets you to raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to kill me or sleep with me?”

“Charming.”

“See,” you flash your teeth in a shit-eating grin, “There you go with those mixed messages again.”

“Then allow me to be perfectly clear.”

You roll your eyes. You can feel the beginnings of a long-winded rant coming on. Just once, you’d like to get in a fight with someone who can keep their mouth shut for more than thirty seconds at a time.

“I am the architect of your reality. I _build_ what I want. I _destroy_ what I want. And your bravado…” He pauses because, _of course_ , out of all the aliens that could’ve attacked the planet and taken you hostage in a virtual world, you had to get stuck with one who has a flair for the dramatics. “…Means… _nothing_.”

The ground rumbles as the world around you changes; bits of data change and reshape themselves, merging together to form glowing red skyscrapers that tower over the city with an ominous presence.

A crack forms midair in the space in front of you and now you’re staring Zinyak right in his stupid ugly face, eye to eye. Well, eye to torso. He’s a big fucker. You’ve never considered yourself to be short but he dwarves you with his size.

You don’t let that bother you too much. You may not be able to reach his neck without a stepping stool but you can still reach his skull with your bullets.

You unload four shots into his chest and he doesn’t even flinch; just flairs his arm out to the side and sends your pistol magically flying out of your hands.

He must see the look of dumb shock on your face, because he grins as he walks toward you. “Fighting back is pointless, my friend.”

Well, _fuck_. You’re going to need a bigger gun.

You take a few steps back before turning at a 180 degree angle and attempting to get the hell out of there. Or, at the very least, find some more ammo for your rocket launcher. You’re hoping that Kinzie’s silence means she’s cooking up something good for you with her computer-coding nerd powers.

You don’t make it five steps before the shitty sitcom suburb disappears into inky blackness and Zinyak appears in its place, causing you to nearly run smack-dab into the space-faring shit-lord.

“There’s nowhere to run.” He takes slow, purposeful steps toward you. “You…belong…to me.”

You turn back around and he’s right there. He’s quick to grab you by the neck, holding you out at arm’s length as he leers at you with eyes as dark as night. His fingers squeeze tight around your throat; not enough to obstruct your airflow but enough to let you know he could do so if he wanted.

You suppose he’s trying to be intimidating but you don’t care much for his threat. You’ve taken shits more threatening to you than him.

You take a swing at him but, unfortunately, your reach is too short so your fist just passes harmlessly through the air in front of his face. His grip on your throat tightens as he smirks and you just scowl back at his smarmy ass.

“Now onto more pleasant things.” He pulls you in closer; close enough to feel his nasty hot breath fanning over your face. “I’m going to place you in your new home. Try to run again, and I’ll destroy your pitiful planet.”

You look down briefly and beneath Zinyak’s feet you see a bird’s-eye view of Steelport. You look back up and he’s staring you down with a single raised brow, as if to say, _Do you understand?_ To which you promptly respond with a raised middle finger that speaks clearly enough for itself.

A second later and you’ve got a mouthful of alien tongue.

As the leader of both the Third Street Saints and the United States of America, you’ve done a lot of crazy, unbelievable things. You’ve ridden along in a septic truck and sprayed literal shit on cars, buildings, and people. You’ve murdered an entire sex club full of rival gang members with a pimp while naked and high as fuck. You’ve beaten to death hundreds of people with a giant purple dildo bat. You’ve jumped on an active nuclear missile as it was launching and disarmed it midair for fuck’s sake!

But this? Getting hate-snogged by a space invader? This is _definitely_ at the top of your list of crazy shit. Well, top three.

You’re in such a state of shock that you don’t even get the idea to bite his tongue in two until it’s too late. He pulls back, looking satisfied and smug as always as he holds you back at arm’s length and brushes imaginary dust off your shoulder.

“TTFN,” he says as he releases his hold on your neck, leaving you at the mercy of gravity as you go plummeting towards the ground.

As you fall, you don’t think of how painful it’s going to be when you smash into the concrete below. You don’t even think about how much of a fucking tool Zinyak is for using an acronym instead of just saying _Ta-ta for now_ when it’s the same damn amount of syllables. Instead, you’re struck with the curious and horrifying thought of the Zinyak’s dick and if it’s as big and spiky as the rest of him.

You kind of hope the fall kills you, if only to wipe that mental image away for good. With the way your luck’s been going, though, you’ll most likely just end up unconscious with nightmares of hardcore xeno porn.

You cross your arms and sigh. Today is just _not_ your day.


End file.
